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Robb Returns by The Dark Scribbler
 Books » A song of Ice and Fire Rated: K+, English, Fantasy & Adventure, Eddard S./Ned, Robb S., Theon G., Domeric B., Words: 627k+, Favs: 6k+, Follows: 6k+, Published: Jul 16, 2015 Updated: Sep 287,744Chapter 62
Sorry about the delay on this. I've been ill and then very busy.
Oberyn
He found Doran sitting in his chair in the middle of the Water Gardens again, staring at the distant horizon with a thoughtful look on his face and a lap filled with at least seven pieces of paper. As he approached his brother caught sight of him and then smiled slightly. "Brother."
"My Prince," he said formally and then sat with a slight smile. "You are well?"
Doran pulled a slight face. "More letters have come. Oberyn, another nine houses of the Stony Dornish have written to me telling me that they are sending men and food and supplies and coin to the Wall. They do not ask, they tell me. The eyes of the Stony Dornish are not on Sunspear. They are on Castle Black. And Winterfell."
He felt a wince cross his own face. "I thought that might happen. It's happening elsewhere. It's shaking The Reach as well."
Doran's eyes flickered at him. "How so?"
"My young friend Willas Tyrell wrote to me today from Highgarden. He can walk again without a cane, the rumours were true. He cannot explain it."
"Magic then." Doran said the words with a slightly pained look at his own legs. "I wish that I could say the same."
"There are… certain other things he says, or rather does not say, in his letter. I seem to detect the influence of the Queen of Thorns on him at the moment. He hints that perhaps any meaningful correspondence between Dorne and The Reach should be directed to him and not his father. It is just a hint, just a suggestion, but to me it is clear."
Doran looked at him in first surprise and then some satisfaction. "If true, that would be excellent. Dealing with Mace Tyrell is like talking to a child at times. The man's a fool."
"You know my views on the Fat Flower," Oberyn replied with a sly smile. "Willas Tyrell on the other hand is very different."
His brother snorted with contempt. "Good. It would be hard to think of a bigger idiot for a Lord Paramount than Mace Tyrell. If his son is seeking to quietly supplant him then the collective intelligence of the nobility of Westeros will take an upward leap. Watching Mace Tyrell play at the Game of Thrones is like watching a blind man try to be an archer."
He laughed at that. "Apt, brother. Very apt." Then he sobered. "We will need our friends. Another letter came, from an old friend of mine at the Citadel. A Maester called Garin. An odd fellow, one who would rather look at the stars than at his own feet, but a good man. And he says that the stars are shifting. The Starks are always eventually right. Winter is coming brother, and this one will be a long one. And a bad one – or so Garin thinks."
Doran frowned at him. "Do you think he is right?"
"I shall observe the stars myself. But I have to tell you that if Garin states something about the stars, there is every chance that he is right." He shifted a little in his seat, a sign of slight nervousness that his brother immediately noticed by his upraised eyebrow.
"What else do you need to talk to me about brother?"
"We need more information. I was thinking about sending someone I trust to Winterfell to ask questions. Lots of questions. Someone I trust absolutely."
"Who?"
"Sarella."
Doran's eyebrows flew upwards for a moment – and then lowered in thought. "An interesting choice. Of all your Sand Snakes she is the most… curious. Why though?"
"A long winter might be coming, and a bad one. The Stony Dornish are worried enough to send help to their kin far to the North. To the Wall. This… call that has gone out – it reeks of magic. Old magic, brother, a very old magic. I sense that something has changed in this world. And that all our calculations, all our plans, need to be placed to one side."
This made Doran's eyes widen for a long moment. "You would give up our plan? And our vengeance against the Lannisters?"
"No!" He snapped the word hotly and then made himself calm down a little. "Just… postpone it a little." He looked at the horizon for a moment. "We need information. Sarella can get it, as can I. But we need to find out what's going on."
The Prince of Dorne leant back in his wheeled chair and then steepled his fingers under his nose, something he did when he was thinking very hard. Then he looked up. "Very well. Send Sarella. By a fast ship. Use what money you need."
Oberyn leant back. "Thank you brother."
"Thank me not just yet. The more you look at the stars, the less time you'll have with Ellaria."
He smirked at his brother. "How little you know me at times."
Brynden
Brienne of Tarth was quite an agreeable travelling companion, he thought as they trotted down the road. For one thing she didn't feel the need to fill the air with meaningless babble about everything that they were passing. He remembered old Ser Robar Tilly and mentally winced. A good friend and a doughty warrior, but by all the gods a man who couldn't keep his mouth shut whilst riding. Dead now of course. Killed at the Ruby Ford.
Brienne of Tarth on the other hand kept any conversation down to the bare bones, such as just about the direction they were taking. And they had a better idea of that now. They were heading straight to the God's Eye.
He mulled things over as they went down the road. What was this pull? Why did they both feel it? Did others feel it too? Why? Was it the blood of the First Men? If so, again, why? What was driving them?
They'd taken a pair of rooms in a small tavern in a village the previous night, a place that looked reasonably clean. There had been a certain air of nervousness over the place though, something that had puzzled him – right up until the moment that they had seen the Septon as they had left the village that morning.
He had been a strange man, that one. Simply dressed with bare feet that had callouses on them, or what could be seen through the dirt. A crown of grey, almost white hair, a look of piety – and the eyes of a madman, or at least the eyes of man deep in denial.
"Greetings, sons of the Warrior," he'd started off saying. "Have you come to join our noble cause?"
This had been the wrong thing to say, because Brienne had snorted in derision. "I am no son, I am a daughter!"
The Septon had peered at her in what the Blackfish had to admit was some understandable shock at seeing a woman in armour. His next words confirmed this: "A woman with a sword? In armour?"
Brienne of Tarth had answered this by gripping her sword with one hand and then leaning forwards in her saddle to direct a hard stare at the bloody man, who had then looked uncomfortable for a moment, before looking back at the Blackfish.
"We seek men – and women – of the Faith. Ours is a holy task." And then the people who had started to collect around them all nodded. "Most holy!"
"And what would that task be then?"
A strange light had filled the Septon's eyes. "Why, to rid the land of the last vestige of heresy! The last symbol of the old ways!"
"Burn the heretics!" The growing crowd had shouted. "Burn them!"
"What heretics? What symbol?"
The Septon had looked them up and down. "Where are you bound?"
He had stared back at the man. "Where we are bound for is our business. And, with all respect due to a Septon, none of your business. So we will wish you a pleasant day and ride along." He eyed the crowd and then kicked Longshanks in the ribs and rode off, with Brienne of Tarth at his side.
After a few minutes he had held up a hand in warning. "Don't look back."
She had shot a curious look at him. "I was about to. Why should I not?"
"Because madness is festering behind us. Religious madness. I've seen it before. Don't look back. Too many eyes are watching us. I feel it. They were about to ask us stupid questions about which gods we worshipped."
She had mulled this over for a moment. "I was brought up worshipping the Seven."
"As was I. I wonder which gods sent the Call though?" And then they had rode on in silence.
That had been in the morning. Now the sun had passed the noon mark and was sinking into the West as they came to a crest on the road then slowed to a half. Ahead lay God's Eye – and the island.
"The Isle of Faces," Brynden muttered. "Is it there? Is that where we are drawn?"
"I don't know," his companion replied. "But… I feel as if I am drawn there. It grows stronger as I look upon it."
This was a good point. "Aye," he said. "But if that is where we are bound, then how shall we get there? There must be a village by the shore. People with access to boats. I'm not leaving Longshanks tied to a tree and it's a bit far to swim."
Brienne of Tarth nodded seriously and then they both rode down the road. Fortunately there was indeed a village by the shore, a larger place than he might have thought. And the moment they reached it something set off an distant… alarm, no, faint warning… in his mind. It was the Sept that started it. It was freshly painted but the path leading to it seemed to be quite thin.
And then they reached the square in the middle of the village and drew rein. There was a group of people working on some boats by the jetty. And there was a man sharpening a sword to one side as he sat on a bench. A very familiar man. He was dark haired, although greying and broad shouldered and there was a paleness to his face that showed that he had shaved off a beard recently.
"You!" Brynden bellowed the word so loudly that birds flew up in the nearby fields. Then he dismounted, tossed the reins to a startled Brienne of Tarth and strode forwards towards the equally startled man – who then blanched with shock at the sight of him.
"Robar Glovett! Gods damn you man, where have you been?" He stamped to halt and then looked the man up and down. "What happened to you? I had permission from the King himself to knight you after Pyke. And then you vanished!"
The old soldier sighed. "Ser Brynden. I am heartily glad to see you."
"Damn it man! Where have you been? You and I fought together in the War of the Ninepenny Kings, and the Rebellion and then against the Greyjoys." He smiled at last. "I thought you were dead."
His old friend smiled sadly. "After Pyke… I had enough, Ser Brynden. All that blood. All that killing. I thought I found a calling. I became a wandering Septon."
Brynden stared at the man in shock. And yet… yes, he was not too surprised. A man could only take so much butchery before they cracked. Then he stared at the sword and raised a shaggy eyebrow.
Glovett sighed and then looked at him – before raising an eyebrow at Brienne of Tarth. "Things have changed. Times have changed. Old certainties have shifted. I have heard…"
"A Call? 'The Others come. The Stark calls for aid. You are needed.'" He smiled briefly. "I have heard it too. So has my travelling companion. This is Brienne of Tarth. Brienne – this is Robar Glovett, old soldier, old friend and a good man."
She nodded and then tilted her head to one side. "A man who sharpens a sword is a man who knows that he might need to use it."
Glovett had been gaping at him, but then shook himself like a dog emerging from water. "Well, that's a surprise. The blood of the First Men runs strongly in us all does it not? Ah – the sword. I am indeed needed." He looked over his shoulder at the gathering men and women who had noticed the two new arrivals. "We must protect the Isle of Faces."
Something cold settled over him. "We rode through a village to the North-East this morning, filled with religious imbeciles. I seemed to hear the ghost of the Faith Militant rising from the grave there."
Glovett set his chin a little. "The ghost? Nay, it arises red in tooth and claw there. And in other places. Many deny the Call – deny it to the point where they claim that it's all a lie. And they will burn alive those who say that they heard the Call. Along with the Isle of Faces. It's one of the last Weirwoods South of the Neck. It's a symbol. And symbols have power. The Septon who burns it to the ground will have great power amongst the Faith Militant."
He rubbed his chin and then looked at Brienne of Tarth, who was pale with anger. "We need to get to the Isle. Don't ask me why, because I couldn't tell you. But we are not a threat to the Isle. We will not harm a single tree there. But… we are drawn there. We have heard the Call and we are drawn there."
The old soldier stared at him a long while. Then he looked around at the silent crowd that had gathered around them. "This man is the uncle to Eddard Stark, the Stark in Winterfell! He is Ser Brynden Tully! He is a good man! He and his companion, Brienne of Tarth, have both heard the Call! Shall we help him?"
And with that the crowd bellowed one word: "YES!"
Tyrion
Lord Stark was still reading the history of the First Men that the Surestones had been working on for so long and as a result Tyrion was starting to get antsy. He was quite sure that if he had been given the book then he would have finished it by now, and made notes.
But instead he had to wait. So he found himself in the Library of Winterfell, surrounded by books that were almost – but not quite – as good. Some were brand new – copies of volumes that had been kept in some secret place by old Rickard Stark apparently. And they were mostly enlightening.
The Maester here, Luwin, was a very civil fellow who knew his business, oh yes. And he also knew a fellow book lover by sight, based on the way that he had looked at the pile of books next to Tyrion and then added a few himself silently.
The more he read the more he could confirm the threads already in place in his mind. The old Kings in the North had been powerful indeed – power that came from influence more than power that came from swords or fear. He wondered what his father would have made of that kind of power. Probably curled a lip at the idea of someone not using fear as a tool. Perhaps he was being harsh on Father. Perhaps not.
He made a careful note in the notebook to one side and then closed it. His stomach was grumbling, it just happened to be dinnertime and he needed a goblet of wine.
As he reached the Great Hall he could see other trickling in. And then he saw more people hurry in to one side. He frowned – and then he saw that Lord Stark was standing at his place at the great table, with his wife next to him and all his children. A pale Robb Stark was just to his left and a solemn Theon Greyjoy was to his right.
Once the Great Hall was filled then GreatJon Umber stood and stepped forwards. He was an imposing man, huge and raw-boned. Oddly enough it was the man next to him who impressed Tyrion more. Howland Reed was smaller than the GreatJon but seemed to be more intense. Now they stood before the table, and were joined by Domerick Bolton, a lad besotted – and she with him – with Sansa Stark.
"Hear now the words of Lord Stark, Warden of the North!" GreatJon bellowed. "The North stands witness!"
Lord Stark took a step forwards. "House Stark has held its vows for many years. And its honour. We have also held Ice, the Valyrian Steel sword. But the Long Night comes. Winter comes, as do the Others, and it is time for old things to be renewed. From this day forwards Ice will be held by the heir to House Stark. And I now give it to my oldest son, Robb."
He turned to Greyjoy, who placed the great sword in his hands, before turning to Robb Stark, who looked at him with eyes that seemed far older than his face. Tyrion still had questions about that boy. There was something odd about him, something that just couldn't put his finger on. "This sword has been a symbol of justice for the North. Wield it with honour."
"I shall – this I swear." Robb Stark said hoarsely and Tyrion wondered what was going through his mind. He tried to imagine Father giving him something like Brightroar – and found his mind failing to picture to it. Frankly he envied Robb Stark at that moment. He could see how proud his father was of him – how proud all of his family were of him. Lady Stark was beaming at him and all of his siblings were also smiling, with the exception of Rickon who was also trying to see if he could steal the piece of bread left on Arya's plate.
Robb Stark stepped back and then Lord Stark turned to the hall again. "From this day forwards I will wield the ancient weapon of House Stark – the Fist of Winter." Mutters filled the hall suddenly, the sound rising as Jory Cassel walked in with the mace in his hands. There was something… ancient about it, something that told of and Age of Man long past – one that just might be returning. Cassel bowed formally to Lord Stark and then passed the mace over, before walking over to one of the tables, where Annah, a woman who Tyrion could tell at a glance was passionately in love with the man, shot him a brilliant smile.
The big mace was raised in the air by Lord Stark. "Winter is coming!" Lord Stark barked the words with a grim intensity.
"WINTER IS COMING!" The crowd roared back.
Lord Stark nodded and then held up his free hand. "Before we eat there is another matter. Just before I came in I received a raven from Kings Landing. Jon, can you join me here please?"
Stark's bastard son frowned to one side of Tyrion but then stood and joined his father, who smiled at him. "I have a message here from King Robert himself." He shot a fierce look about the hall. "Jon Snow is hereby legitimised, by the order of the King himself. He is Jon Snow no longer. He is now Jon Stark." He placed his hand on his son's shoulder, which seemed to calm the boy a little, as he was pale-faced and fighting back tears. "Join the family at the head table lad."
Cheers went up as the boy numbly walked over to the main table, where Robb Stark greeted him with a hug, followed by the others, young Arya Stark being the second most enthusiastic. Even Lady Stark kissed him on both cheeks and smiled at him. Given what he had heard about her previous attitude towards him, Tyrion found this interesting. What had changed?
As everyone started to take a seat and the food started to appear Tyrion smiled slightly. Yes, he needed food. Wine too. And perhaps a trip to the whorehouse later? He needed to make up his mind about that.
"You look serious."
He started slightly and then looked up at the speaker. Oh. "Lady Surestone. I apologise, I did not see you approach."
"Hardly a surprise, given the noise." She sat next to him. "You had a most odd look on your face when Ned gave Robb that sword."
A steaming platter of meat was placed in front of them and he snagged several choice pieces with his fork and then transferred them onto her plate. She smiled at him and then watched as he did the same for his own plate. It gave him a moment to reflect on what to say. He went with honesty. It seemed the best path with this oddly observant woman.
"I imagined my father giving me such a sword. Sadly my imagination was not up to the challenge."
"Ah," she said carefully, a tone to her voice that made him raise an eyebrow. She noticed it and then shrugged. "My father rode South with Ned during the Rebellion. He met your father in King's Landing. He was… not impressed, for various reasons."
"Ah," he replied, with a slightly different tone to his use of the same word that she had used. "Father can be… difficult. In many ways."
She took a bite of meat and then chewed carefully. "Father said that he was a prideful, ruthless, power-hungry man with insanely good luck."
He considered this for a long moment. "You know, I really can't fault that description of Father. Your father was a very perceptive fellow."
"You aren't offended then?"
"On one level - slightly. However, on my own personal level not at all."
She nodded at that and then seemed to be relieved. He wondered why. He looked back at the head table. "I do envy their closeness."
"The Starks?" She smiled at her cousins. "They are the best people I have ever known."
"I meant how much they mean to each other. I had heard that Lady Stark did not like Jon Snow – I beg your pardon, Jon Stark. I do not see any sign of that now. They are not close, but there seems to be no dislike there." He shrugged. "Meals at Casterly Rock tend to be dominated by silences from my father, who disapproves of a great number of things." He paused and wondered why he was telling her these things. Another shrug. "Family is family."
"I wouldn't know much about that," Dacey Surestone said levelly. "As I grew up family was Father and Mother – and Mother died some time ago. Plus the odd visit from Ned."
"No uncles or aunts?"
She smiled sadly. "Dead young. There were more Surestones once. I am the last of them."
He ate from his own plate. "I have lost uncles over the past years. Uncle Tygett died. Uncle Gerion – we have no idea where his bones lie. He went looking for Brightroar, the long lost Valyrian steel sword of the Lannisters. Father traced his ship as far as Volantis. Apparently he planned to sail into the Smoking Sea. If he did – he never sailed out again."
She stared at him a long moment and then seemed to be about to say something when a door slammed open to one side and Maester Luwin scurried in. "My Lord Stark," he cried as he approached the main table, "The Direwolf is whelping!"
Jon Arryn
Lysa was worrying him. So much so that he had agreed for her to be sent away from the Red Keep. Riverrun perhaps. Yes, that might settle her nerves. Then he paused. Wait, that might actually make her worse. She and Baelish had been brought up there. The Eyrie then. Yes – but under strict supervision.
He made a note, handed it to Quill, who nodded and slipped out and then he left the Tower of the Hand and strode over to the Red Keep. Gods but he was tired. He had a sense that a great crisis was approaching, a storm that he hadn't previously ever suspected was there. One that a part of him did not believe could possibly exist – but it still did.
Turning a corner and acknowledging the nod of Barristan Selmy he entered the meeting room. As he expected Robert was waiting there. He seemed almost pensive. He also seemed to be a little thinner – again. How hard was he driving himself? Why? That sword was strapped to his back again. It seemed to represent kingship for Robert, he knew that much. The Storm Kings had been mighty monarchs.
"Jon, how are you this day?" Robert asked softly. "You look tired."
"Lysa has been something of a trial," he replied. "The death of Baelish upset her greatly. I… I am having her sent to The Eyrie to recover her spirits."
Robert looked at him for a long moment and then nodded. "I did wonder what you might do with her. Her screams at seeing his head… well, it made my toes curl."
"I did not know that you had heard it," Jon sighed. "My apologies Your Grace."
"Think nothing of it, Jon. The whole Red Keep heard it I think." He shook his head.
"Aye," Jon replied. "She complains about Robin being so far away from her and demands his return. I will not have her anywhere near him. A raven came from Winterfell this morning. My son is free from the poison and is growing like a weed, Ned said. He said that young Robert is constantly asking questions and is learning to ride his own horse!" He smiled fondly. "I wish that I could see him."
"You soon will," Robert said with a smile. "We are going to Winterfell. I made my mind up last night. We are reacting when we should be acting. This business with Baelish is all but complete now, as we sort out the finances. More word has come of unrest from this Call that has gone out. We need to talk to Ned and we need to do it face to face. He won't come South, I can feel it. So we'll go North. To Winterfell."
He thought about this for a long moment and then he nodded. Yes. And Winterfell was perfect for other reasons. "You are moving the Court there temporarily?"
"Aye. I have a lot of catching up to do with Ned anyway, but we need answers, and quickly." He smiled slightly sourly. "The Nag won't like the fact that young Edric will be there before we get there, but I don't give a damn, as long as she doesn't have anything to do with him. Oh yes, I met another of my bastards the other day, in a smithy. Gendry by name. He's a big lad – the spitting image of me when I was that age." His eyes clouded over a moment. "You know, I often wondered what kind of children Lyanna and I would have had. Gendry made me think of her for some reason. I dreamt of her again last night. The oddest dream – she was trying to tell me something, but the wind was howling about my ears. She was just as I remember her."
Gods, but he wanted to tell Robert the truth about his 'trueborn' children, but that would have to wait until Winterfell, a place where Cersei and Jaime Lannister could be isolated, contained and brought to justice. And Winterfell was nicely isolated from the Westerlands. Tywin Lannister's reaction would be one of angry rejection of any claims of incest, followed by an icy demand to release his children and restore his grandchildren to the line of succession.
If they handled it right there just might not be a war. The problem would be Robert, who would probably fly into a rage and try and remove the heads of the incestuous couple with his sword.
He made himself smile at Robert and was about to say something about young Gendry when he heard the puffing noise that heralded the arrival of Pycelle, who was clutching a rolled up map under one arm and who looked as excited as he ever did.
"Your Grace! My Lord Hand! I have the answer!"
Jon stole a quick glance with Robert. "The answer to what, Grand Maester?"
Pycelle had reached the table and was busy pinning the map down with weights. Jon watched him through narrowed eyes. He had his suspicions about Pycelle. There were times when the doddering fool faded away and a dangerously competent man loyal to the Lannisters shone through. At the moment he simply seemed very excited.
"I took most careful sightings of the exact direction that the statues of the Seven in the Great Sept were all turned to. Then I extrapolated the exact direction from points outside the Great Sept." He preened. "It was most difficult. However, I have no small amount of skill in this matter and I was able to project a line – thus." He placed a finger on the map and then gestured to a long red line that stretched North.
They peered at the line. "It misses Winterfell completely," Robert said grimly. "Through the Haunted Forest, over the Shivering Sea, towards those hills there. So the Seven send us a warning against something along that line, North of the Wall."
"It's never a good sign when men stare at maps with such grim faces," said a voice to one side. Varys had arrived, near-silently on those slippered feet of his. Then he caught sight of what was on the map. "Ah. The direction that the statues of the Seven were pointing towards?" He peered at the map. "Somewhere North of the Wall I see."
"Has this been shown to the High Septon?" Jon asked.
"It has, my Lord Hand," Pycelle said quickly. "I thought it best. There were a number of Septons there who were talking… somewhat wildly of a holy war against Winterfell. They seemed most put out when I explained my findings. In great detail. Very loudly."
"Holy war," Robert said grimly. "The Faith Militant. Godsdamnit."
"They seemed less enamoured of their certainties after I talked to them," Pycelle said quietly. "I was most thorough."
They all stared at him and then Robert smiled. "Nicely done, Grand Maester."
"Sadly," Varys said quietly, "The High Septon needs to tell a lot more people as quickly as he can. There is word of more religious unrest elsewhere in the Seven Kingdoms. My little birds whisper to me that the Iron Islands are increasingly wracked with conflict over this call, and there is word of unrest in the Riverlands, especially near Harrenhall and the God's Eye."
"Bugger." Robert spat the word furiously, before sitting in his seat. "I'll have a word with the wretched man himself."
"What wretched man would this be?" Renly asked as he walked in with Stannis next to him.
"The High Septon," Jon sighed as he finally sat in his seat. He was more tired than he had first thought. "There is… dissension amidst the Septons. There should not be – Pycelle has traced where the statues of the Seven are facing now."
The two Baratheons leant over the map. "Ah." Renly finally said. "How odd." He sat down. "What does it mean?"
A number of people looked at each other in mutual confusion. "We don't yet know," Jon said eventually. "But as the statues are not looking at Winterfell the Septons need to stop all this insane talk about fighting the heretics of the North. The faith of the First Men is alive and well South of the Neck, as we all know. The last thing we need is a religious war."
Grunts of agreement and nods came from all around the table. "Well said," Robert muttered. "Now – first things first. Jon and I have talked, and we intend to go North to Winterfell as soon as we can to talk to Ned Stark. Something is happening in the North, something related to this Call and the legends of the Others and we need to find out what."
Pycelle shifted in his chair and looked mulish at this mention of the Others and Jon was sure that he heard an annoyed whisper of "Northern legends, harrumph."
"Will you be moving the entire Court to Winterfell?" Stannis asked with a gleam in his eye that Jon understood perfectly.
"Cersei and I will be going, along with Jon. The children too. It's about time that they saw the North, plus I have a marriage alliance with the Starks in my mind. Joffrey could marry Ned's oldest daughter. It would strengthen links with the North at a time when – as we think now – the North needs as much support as possible."
This was the first that he had heard of a possible marriage between Joffrey and… Sansa wasn't it? It made sense. However, Robert did not know what he did about Joffrey. He'd have to be told before they got to Winterfell. He looked at Stannis, who flickered an eyebrow at him. Yes, Stannis thought so too.
"But the Kingdom cannot run itself when we are travelling, so we will leave the bulk of the Small Council here to keep an eye on things – especially if there is trouble in the Realm. Varys, you and Pycelle will remain. Stannis, I need you to make sure that the Navy is well prepared. We might be moving troops around by sea. Renly – how goes the unravelling of Baelish's books?"
"Almost done," Renly said grimly. "And some unpleasant things have emerged recently. It seems that Baelish had some fingers in some appalling places. He was a majority partner in an organisation that had dealings with…. with Slaver's Bay."
An appalled silence settled over the room, before Varys' his face wracked with unexpected emotion, finally broke it: "What?"
"I'm afraid that you heard me correctly, Lord Varys," Renly replied solemnly. "He had dealings with Slaver's Bay. Meereen mostly."
"I should have hacked his miserable excuse for a head clean off his shoulders the moment I saw him," Stannis said through clenched teeth. "The animal. Was he that greedy?"
"He was," Renly acknowledged. "The only good thing is that by liquidating his holdings the Crown will make quite a bit of coin – without profiting a single copper penny from the sale of slaves, I must stress."
Unhappy nods greeted this around the table. "Gods damn that bloody man into the lowest hell that exists," Robert muttered. "The man had no shame whatsoever. Varys – any news from you?"
"Some, and mixed Your Grace. There is, as I said, trouble in the Iron Islands, primarily religion based. Oh and the Company of the Rose has left Pentos, bound, I am informed, for White Harbour. The entire company. It is most… unusual. They are drawn home, as their leader, The Stone, said 'to fight the Others'." Then he coughed delicately. "They have been joined by another exile. Ser Jorah Mormont."
Robert stared at the eunuch incredulously. "Mormont? The idiot from Bear Island who Ned discovered had sold poachers into slavery so that he could keep his Hightower wife in silks?"
"And also the man who has been sending regular reports from Essos about all manner of events there, including a number of things that allowed us to stop various… unpleasantnesses. He is the man who discovered that the Dothraki were moving Eastwards for some mysterious reason. And he was the man who has been keeping an eye on the Targaryens."
"Are they still in Pentos?" Robert barked.
"Yes, Your Grace, in the mansion of one of the Magisters there, one Ilyrio Motapis – a man who I know. Apparently it turns out that there is potential dissension there. It appears that Viserys Targaryen did not tell his sister about the… nature of their father. Namely the truth about the deaths of the Starks in the Red Keep. And other things."
Robert snorted with contempt. "Why does that not surprise me?"
"It also seems that Viserys Targaryen has become somewhat… obsessed with a dragon egg in his possession."
Various eyeballs swivelled. "Will it hatch?" Stannis asked.
Varys simpered slightly. "I have been reliably informed that it will not."
"It had better not," Robert rumbled. "Anything else?"
"Willas Tyrell appears to be taking a greater role in the running of The Reach Your Grace. It appears that he and his grandmother are taking steps to sideline his father."
"I had heard something similar," Renly said gruffly. "Loras Tyrell has been recalled to Highgarden."
Jon looked at the youngest Baratheon out of the corner of his eye. He looked perfectly composed. Interesting.
"It might be refreshing to deal with a competent person in charge of The Reach," Stannis muttered. "As opposed to that fat idiot."
There was a loud drumming noise from Robert's hand as his fingers hammered against the desk. "Is this linked to The Call?"
"Given the tale of Willas Tyrell's sleepwalking and use of a sledgehammer in finding a hidden room in Highgarden, more than likely Your Grace."
"Another reason to go North to Winterfell," Robert muttered. "Anything else?"
"There is the matter of a new Master of Coin, Your Grace?" Jon asked.
"Oh Gods. Yes, I've been looking at the suggestions from various people. Cersei's list might as well have had 'LANNISTER' written all the way through it. Ser Harys Swyft. Gyles Rosby. Good Gods!"
"Alester Florent." Stannis muttered. "What about him?"
There was a pause as Robert pondered this. "Old, rich and clever. Ambitious too, but not so much that he'd be as mad as Baelish. Hmmm. Not a bad idea brother. I will think on it most carefully. Anything else?"
Various heads were shaken and then Robert stood up. "Good. Renly, Stannis, come with me. I need to spar again and I will kick your arses around the sparring ground, brothers."
Renley grinned at his oldest brother and even Stannis cracked the slightest of smiles before they vanished off. Varys bowed and left on silent feet, whilst Pycelle rolled his map up and then hobbled off.
Jon sighed as he got to his feet and stared at the room. Winterfell. It would be a long trip. By road or by sea to White Harbour? He'd think about the logistics later. He picked up his papers and then strode out.
It wasn't until he turned the third corner that he felt a frisson of alarm. He was being watched. But by whom? Who would dare? He looked about. No-one. Imagination? He strode on. Damn it, why did they have to have meetings in such a remote place? Paranoia?
He sensed rather than saw the dagger as it flashed out of the shadows and was just about able to turn fast enough that it glanced off a rib instead of plunging into his stomach. He groaned with pain as the blade sliced through robes, skin and flesh and he felt the blood start to flow down his side. One hand flailed out at the hand that held the attacking dagger and he felt the blade with a finger. More blood.
Whoever was attacking him didn't know his business and he heard panting to one side. He pulled his left hand down to try and pull out his own dagger as he pushed against his attacker. The corridor was poorly lit and all he could see was a cloaked and hooded figure. He could feel his blood thundering through his veins. Too old, he thought, too old.
The dagger came down again and he barely deflected it as it sank into his side. Agony flared and he grunted in pain.
Only then did his attacker speak – and the words broke him with shock. "For Petyr! Die, old man! You horrible old man!"
Lysa. It was Lysa. His own wife. Why? Why was she doing this? Shock paralysed him – and then the dagger came down again. This time he got a hand to it and pushed it to one side, whilst jabbing almost by instinct with his own. Lysa groaned in pain as his dagger sliced her arm – but her own dagger had hit his ribs yet again. His vision was blurring, he was weakening fast. She kicked at him then and he felt his own legs wobble – and then he fell.
There was blood on his hands and somehow on his face and he wondered where his dagger had gone to. Lysa. Why was Lysa doing this? And then he saw the boot moving towards his face. He turned his head just enough so that it crashed into his forehead and not his jaw. And then darkness fell.
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